


The Strenuous Art of Saving Friends

by AngstyDathomirians



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, But he's working on it, Ed has issues, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Gen, Hopeful Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mental Illness, sorry for the lame title I'm tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyDathomirians/pseuds/AngstyDathomirians
Summary: In that moment, Ed had never hated Oswald more. He hated him for killing Isabella. He hated his tears, hated how Oswald had been so wrapped up in his emotions that he’d ignored Ed’s own, he hated him for making an affair that should have been over and done with already so damn confusing. He hated Oswald for being the one riddle he couldn’t solve.





	The Strenuous Art of Saving Friends

**Author's Note:**

> This is word vomit basically. I just wanted to put something out for the Gotham finale, and this piece is really important to me because of something that happened in my own life.

_Kill him. Kill him. I want him dead I want him gone I want him to SUFFER –_

             Ed’s shaking hand gripped the gun tighter, resisting just a little longer, his mind racing. An hour ago, he’d have shot Oswald dead without hesitation. He’d killed Ed’s beautiful Isabella, so he had to die in return. Black and white. Straightforward. The logical progression of events.

              But then – damn Oswald’s raging, crying, loving, bleeding heart. He’d defied logic, defied Ed’s expectations. He’d sacrificed himself.

              And…Ed didn’t know what it meant.

              “Ed, are you listening to me?!” he heard Oswald sob, the thin rain mingling with his blotchy tears; he was desperate, exhausted, hysterical, heart stabbed and bled almost dry.

              “I’m listening,” he responded absently. _Shut up, I’m thinking_.

              “Say something,” Oswald pleaded.

              And in that moment, Ed had never hated him more. He hated him for killing Isabella. He hated his tears, hated how Oswald had been so wrapped up in his emotions that he’d ignored Ed’s own, he hated him for making an affair that should have been over and done with already so damn confusing. He hated Oswald for being the one riddle he couldn’t solve.

              _Kill him kill him he will not be known so you must make him go away_ –

              What he said was, “I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her.” Simple. Straightforward.

              There was nothing else he _could_ say.

              His finger tightened on the trigger, and then Oswald was falling, falling, sinking into the cold, murky waters below. He hadn’t uttered a sound.

              That should have been the end of it.

              _You coward_ , Ed hissed at himself. _So this is how the great Edward Nygma reacts to a challenge? He gives up, gets rid of it, tries to bury it? Fool! He’ll haunt you the rest of your days. He still beat you._

“Shut up,” Ed muttered, frozen, staring into the water and making no move to retreat. He could still see the faint outline of a body, rapidly disappearing in the red cloud of blood. “It’s not like that.”

              Then, to his horror, it was Oswald’s voice – _You need me, Edward Nygma! Just as I need you –_

              “Shut _up!_ ” he grit through clenched teeth. His fingers twitched. 

              His own voice again. _Make me_.

              “…Dammit,” he whispered, then shrugged off his jacket and dove into the water.

***

              There was no breath in Oswald’s limp, waterlogged body, and for one heart-stopping moment Ed feared he was already dead – had been dead for too long. His clammy skin was white, blood oozing sluggishly from the hole in his stomach.

              No matter, no matter, Ed told himself, wringing his shaking hands. He was – he was well-trained in resuscitation.

              He felt one of Oswald’s thin ribs crack beneath his hands. He was being clumsy –

              _What are you doing?!_ his other roared inside his head. _Don’t wake him up!_

“I need to – I need to understand,” Ed answered automatically.

              His limbs seized up. “Please stop,” he pleaded. “Please let me save him.”

              _Stop lying to yourself_ , his other sneered. _You understand him just fine. He hurt you, you hurt him back. Forget him_. The mocking voice dropped to a growl. _As long as he’s alive, you will_ never _be free of your weakness._

His breath caught in his throat as he looked down at Oswald’s ashy face, hovering between life and death. Weakness and strength. Fragmented memories pieced themselves together, his other dragging them into a hazy, misshapen collage – funny, he didn’t remember being alone as he said –

              _A man – a man with nothing that he – that he -_

_Let him die let him die you don’t need him you weak indecisive fool –_

              Oswald jerked beneath him, choking up foul water, and his other vanished, clearing Ed’s thoughts. Instantly he helped Oswald into a sitting position, rubbing his bony back as he heaved and coughed and gasped for air.

              Their eyes met, Oswald’s red-rimmed and filled with pain. He appeared to be trying to say something, but collapsed back against Ed with a weak groan, clutching feebly at the wound in his stomach. Ed scooped up the smaller body in his arms and staggered towards the waiting vehicle, tired muscles screaming in protest. Oswald wasn’t heavy, but it was freezing and the bank was rocky and uneven and he was exhausted.

              What seemed like hours later, he carefully deposited Oswald in the back seat and turned up the heat as much as he could; anything to keep him warm. Oswald was shivering uncontrollably, skin a sickly gray, blue eyes fever-bright. He choked in a shuddering breath. “Ed, I –“

              “Hush,” Ed commanded, brushing the damp black bangs from his face. “It’s ok, you’ll be ok. I promise.”

***

              “He’ll live,” the doctor told him wearily. “The bullet missed everything vital, but it was still touch and go for a while there. You got him here just in time.”

              Ed twitched his fingers; he'd been awfully jumpy lately. He was certain he looked a fright, covered in grit and blood and still stinking from the river, but he was past caring. “Is he awake?”

              “Yes. He was asking for you. We moved him out of the OR so he can rest. First door on the right.” She looked him over critically. “Who did you say shot him again?”

              “I didn’t see. I found him washed up in the shallows.”

              “Hm.” The doctor looked tired, and skeptical. Hopefully the latter was only a byproduct of the former. “We notified the police. They’ll take both of your statements tomorrow.”

              Ed shoved his glasses up his nose – thank God he hadn’t lost them swimming – and stood from the tiny, cramped chair. “Of course. Thank you.”

              Oswald, when Ed noiselessly entered the room, appeared almost exactly as he had when he was recovering at Ed’s apartment nursing a bullet wound in his shoulder, small and pale and sad. But both then and now those vivid blue eyes still held a spark of defiant life, glaring as he turned to meet his visitor’s gaze. A lump rose in Ed’s chest.

              He pulled up one of the bigger chairs and awkwardly seated himself. “Hi,” he greeted quietly.

              Oswald sighed, then coughed slightly. “Why?” he asked, a scratch in his voice. “Not why did you shoot me, I know that. Why did you save me?”

              Ed adjusted his glasses again; something about this conversation just felt…wrong. It must be nerves, which was ridiculous because what did he have to be nervous about? But even he couldn’t always control his emotions with logic; just choose to act on them, or not.

              “I wasn’t going to,” he admitted. “I was going to let you die. He – the other me – he said as long as you were alive I would never be free of my weakness.”

              “You wouldn’t be free of it if I was dead either.” Oswald was silent for a moment, blue eyes distant as they fixed on some point on the ceiling. “The dead…they haunt you, even when you think you’ve moved on. And then there’s no way to reconcile with them. Not really. One can no more be free of weakness than they can erase a scar. All you can do is learn to live with it.”

              Ed scrubbed his hands over his grimy face despairingly, resting his head on the bedrail. Shame gnawed at his gut. “I’m not like you. I don’t know how to live with it. You’ve always been so sure of who you are.”

              Resentment clouded Oswald’s gaze, but then, just as quickly, it passed. “You made a step in the right direction, I’m sure. Dare I say you listened to your heart?”

              “My heart wanted you dead,” Ed ground out. “You – you hurt me, Oswald. So I wanted you gone.” He choked out a resigned laugh. “But then I – I couldn’t do it.”

              He felt Oswald’s cold fingers wrap weakly around his own, and the seemingly unconscious gesture of forgiveness touched him more than he cared to admit. “What the heart says isn’t necessarily what we want,” Oswald said gently. “And I should never have hurt you. I’m sorry.”

              Ed swallowed. _No you’re not. You’re sorry I shot you, sorry I turned on you, sorry I was hurt, yes. But you’re not sorry you killed her_. And he probably never would be. But for all Ed had loved Isabella, and his chest still ached with her loss, the thought of Oswald’s unrepentance no longer enraged him as it once had.

              But he said nothing, neither accepting nor refusing the apology, and Oswald’s jaw tightened as he glanced away. Still, their hands remained entwined. “I won’t tell the police what happened. If you answer my question, for real this time – why did you save me?”

              _I don’t know_ was the honest answer. But even the mere thought of the words left a sour taste on his tongue. And he still wasn’t entirely sure Oswald had suffered enough for his crime. But he did know this for certain: Ed had lost his will to inflict that suffering, if any remained. A dead Oswald would only hurt. A dead Oswald would haunt him forever.

              “We have a great deal to talk about,” he said instead, lightly squeezing his friend’s hand in reassurance, honestly surprised how much affection he could still feel for this man. He supposed, when it came down to it, they deserved each other. “But for now…get better.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really supposed to be shippy. Ed and Oswald's story is really important to me because I relate them a lot to me and my best friend. We too had a massive fallout, and only recently started working towards a better place. So I have emotions about the boys and the restoration of their relationship.   
> So if you ask me, it's gen, but you know, read it how you want.


End file.
